


You Play (But Never Games)

by TheAceApples



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: GFY, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, vampire!Graves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 17:06:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12215145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAceApples/pseuds/TheAceApples
Summary: Percival catches a scent.





	You Play (But Never Games)

**Author's Note:**

> *dramatic music* before there was jerry dandridge, there was percival graves *jazz hands*

Percival doesn’t know the kid from Adam, but something about him draws the eye as Percival makes his way back to the brownstone.

He’s a wretched little thing in ratty clothing and a deeply upsetting haircut that frames his face about as well as cold water cures pneumonia. Standing outside a building that looks one broken window away from being condemned, the boy looks both helpless and resigned to his fate, whatever it may be.

If Percival were a better man than he is (and has been for centuries), he’d consider stopping to help the little guttersnipe out. Offer him some money for a winter coat or maybe a place to stay—maybe a nice, warm bed with thick blankets and a complimentary fuck. In all honesty, young and neglected holds its own sort of appeal, usually in the form of an eagerness to please that goes unrivaled by any other sort.

Unfortunately for him—though not for the waif across the street—the she-wolf has already warned Percival against hunting too close to the nest, so he tamps down on the impulse. Besides, lately his tastes run more in the vein of flappers trying to prove themselves worth more than what’s up their skirts and polished dandies trying to prove themselves worth more than the fact that they don’t want _up_ said skirts.

He’s just convinced himself to stop watching the boy out of the corner of his eye while he stares guilelessly as Percival walks down the street… and then the wind shifts.

Just a whiff of something hot and rich, intimately familiar, has him honing in on the kid across the street. His gaze meets a pair of wide, startled eyes—so dark they’re almost as black as Percival’s during a hunt—for a brief second, before they drop to the ground. The kid’s pale, thin cheeks turn a mouth-watering red, so full of blood that Percival can only stare, rooted to the spot.

He seems to be examining his own freshly-bleeding hands, likely embarrassed to have been caught staring, so Percival looks and smells his fill. A tall slash of black and white and red against the weak light of the setting winter sun, smelling of blood and pain and misery; the boy projects the image of prey so strongly that Percival has to restrain himself from crossing the street and startling him into a run. He’s like a rabbit—terrified and quivering, stock-still, desperately hoping not to be noticed by a passing predator.

And there’s something else, as well. A darkness around the edges of his form, an almost loamy undercurrent to his scent that hinted at something more, something powerful just beneath the surface. There’s something interesting about the boy, more than how utterly delectable he’s going to taste, and fuck what the she-wolf says about keeping a low profile, Percival is going to find out what.

**Author's Note:**

> Just posting this little bit to gauge interest, really.


End file.
